


Ouroboros

by kisahawklin



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21925537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin
Summary: Oliver Jenkins, otherwise known as Crowley, is drunk. Well. Tipsy. At a boring party with boring people and why is he here again?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ivychankasumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivychankasumi/gifts).



> I have no idea where this came from. No wait, I did. I started thinking about soulmates AU and realized that soulmates=human to me (probably the "soul" thing) and then thinking about soul **marks** sort of thing, which brought me to… this… sort of thing. I can't even explain what it is (It's canon! No, it's an AU! It's – it's a canoe! (that line stolen from the delightful SGA fic [Fashion Victim](https://archiveofourown.org/works/85219) by lamardeuse)). 
> 
> At any rate, I hope you like it, Ivychankasumi! 
> 
> Major thanks to my beta @Joyandotherstories (here and on tumblr), who helped me clean this up and make it presentable. Any mistakes remaining are purely my own.

Crowley is a bad influence. Everyone says so. He has a smile that's genuine enough for his mates, but according to their parents is really a smirk. So what if he likes to do interesting stuff? Adults never let kids do anything fun. 

He's smart, though. Smart enough to never be the one caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Smart enough to be at uni with a full scholarship. Smart enough to have gotten himself tipsy before what was likely to be a terribly boring party with terribly boring people so at least he didn't have to drink their terribly boring beer.

He's not feeling very social today and there are more people he doesn't know than he does know, which is pretty unusual for him. "Hey blondie," some girl calls at him. He turns to look at her and when his eyes don't leave hers, despite the extremely risqué outfit he can see in his peripheral vision, she says, "oh," and wanders off.

There's an attractive young man standing directly behind her, though, and Crowley gives _him_ a once-over, but the boy turns his nose up. Crowley sighs. He's thought about trying to change his look, try and get rail thin like some of the twinks, but it just seems like too much work. He likes food too much. What's the point of having a boyfriend if you can't go out to eat with them?

He's always loved food, ever since he was little. Food and music. The music took a while to grow into; his tastes were a little eclectic. It had also led to a lot of trouble and his full ride. Bands always played bars; he'd had to find a way in to hear them. It hadn't taken long to use his trump card. 

Crowley has a birthmark. It's a weird birthmark, and only his parents really know about it. As soon as he was aware of it, he'd also been aware of the long-sleeve shirts his parents dressed him in to cover it up.

That lasted until high school, when he'd had his first boyfriend, gotten the nickname Crowley (oh, how his parents had hated _that_ ), and started wearing short sleeves, even in winter.

He stares down at the mark, tracing it with a fingertip. It's a snake, eating its own tail. He'd looked it up, an ouroboros, something out of Egyptian mythology or whatever. He can see all the scales when he stretches his skin, as well as the winking eye of the snake, like it was some great joke. The letters C R O W L E Y are in the scales, and it hadn't taken long for young Oliver Jenkins to adopt the nickname his boyfriend had called him jokingly.

It was that boyfriend that made Crowley realize he had an in to go see all those bands. If people thought it was a tattoo – and it really did look like one, sometimes he even forgot himself that it was a birthmark – then they'd have to assume he was eighteen. 

So he wrote reviews, which got noticed, and eventually got him a paid reviewer job, which then led him here. Where "here" is a party he's not terribly interested in.

He stares down at his birthmark, thinking about the dreams he used to have, the ones where he'd wake up holding his own wrist, his fingers clasped tight over the snake.

He never remembered the dreams, only waking up scared with the echo of a name being yelled in desperation. _"Aziraphale!"_ So much longing, whoever was calling for him. 

He'd looked the name up and gotten absolutely nothing. It didn't exist. Somehow he'd made up a completely original name in his dreams. For a while he wondered what he should do with the name. It seemed a shame to waste a wholly original name, especially one so interesting. But he wasn't a writer – not a storytelling kind of writer, anyway – and in the end he just started to think of Aziraphale as his guardian angel, one he'd reached for as he fell from Heaven.

He'd told his parents that once, and they'd just looked confused. "Why would you say you fell from Heaven?"

Crowley'd shrugged. "When I was born. Isn't that how everyone is born?"

They'd laughed and turned away, talking about his remarkable imagination. 

**"Aziraphale!"**

Crowley looks up sharply. One glance around shows everyone's turning toward the door. 

It's Zira Smith, the most annoying know-it-all goody-two-shoes bookworm on the planet, posing in the door frame, as if for a photo op. Flame red hair cascades over their shoulders and down their back, and they're wearing a well tailored blue suit that looks amazing. 

"Zira!" someone else cries, and now Crowley's wondering if he misheard the first one because he's a little drunk and letting his mind wander. But Zira could be short for Aziraphale, couldn't it? He's suddenly overcome with finding out. Maybe Zira isn't as hopeless as they seem.

Zira immediately moves over to their regular group of friends, none of which coincide with Crowley's regular group of friends, and he's stuck playing six degrees of Toby Jacobs to try and find a way to talk to Zira. 

It's a party; he could go over and be his charming self, but they'd all wonder. He never gives any of them the time of day usually. They're always trying to rope people into their crusades, it's so annoying. 

He decides to wait and play it cool. He doesn't have enough patience to play nice with all of them long enough to get Zira alone so they can have a chat. 

Eventually Zira pulls away from their pack as the lot of them descend into drunkenness. Zira never drinks at these parties. Crowley's always assumed it was part of their goody-two-shoes thing, but just now, he'd like to ask. 

He follows them to the kitchen and sidles over while they're pouring themself some juice. "Hi," he says, leaning casually against the island.

Zira glances at him, and then looks over their shoulder, like they're trying to figure out who he's talking to. 

"Yeah, you," Crowley says. "Hi."

"Er, hi," Zira says, one eyebrow raised. "You don't talk to me."

Crowley shrugs. "Usually I'm too busy."

Zira snorts, throwing their red curls over their shoulder. "Right."

"Well anyway, I thought I might…" Crowley stalls. How does he even ask the question? Maybe he should just hack the student records. Surely if their given name was Aziraphale, it'd be in the records somewhere?

"Why do you go by Crowley?" Zira interrupts him to ask, and Crowley just blinks. No one has ever asked him that before. Apparently Zira doesn't have the same taboos about questioning someone's name. "I know your real name is Oliver Jenkins."

How the hell do they know that? He eyes them up, trying to figure out what game they're playing. "What's it matter to you?"

Zira looks him over once, sipping at their juice. Someone comes into the kitchen behind Crowley and Zira's eyes flip up to her and back down to him, and then down to his birthmark. "Let's go somewhere we can talk."

For a moment, Crowley's stunned into stillness. It seems like a bad idea, talking to Zira, but it's also inevitable – he has to know. What could it mean, if Zira was really Aziraphale? He nods, letting Zira head out of the kitchen first. 

He's not sure what he thought Zira meant about somewhere to talk privately, but he certainly hadn't expected them to lead him upstairs to the bedrooms, softly knock on doors until they find one unoccupied, and sit down on the bed.

Zira pats the bed next to them and Crowley takes a seat. "So," Zira says, staring at Crowley's birthmark. "When did you get the tattoo?"

Crowley stares down at the snake. You have to look really closely to get the name Crowley out of it – it's written into the scales – so he knows Zira can't have seen it just from looking at it. Have they guessed, somehow? That seems ridiculous. 

"Actually, it's a birthmark," he says, watching their face carefully for signs of disbelief. "I've had it since I was born."

He's only told a handful of people – a couple boyfriends, one really close friend – and none of them have believed him. They'd laughed at him and said, "good one" and just assumed he'd never tell them.

Zira doesn't do that though. Zira actually just stares at the tattoo harder. Crowley pulls at his skin, making the letters of his name slightly more visible. "You've had it since birth. And your parents named you Crowley? Because of the tattoo?"

"Birthmark," Crowley says. "And no. I got that nickname from my first boyfriend, who figured I used a fake ID to get a tattoo before I was old enough. I guess he thought that's what I wanted to call myself, and he was trying to be supportive. It stuck with our friends, and everyone since, I suppose."

They're sitting very close on the bed, Crow's knee and shin nearly touching Zira's thigh. He's watching Zira's profile closely. "You believe me," he says, knowing Zira does.

Zira nods. "I... have." They look down at their hands. "Something similar."

Crowley gasps. "Show me!" He's immediately contrite. That was entirely too demanding for someone he's just started to get to know. "I mean, if you want to."

"I think I do," Zira says, taking a deep breath and holding it for a second. "But you can't laugh."

"I would never!" Crowley says. "What's there to laugh about? Is it a rude joke? Naughty picture?"

Zira shakes their head. "I don't love taking off my clothes where people can see."

Crowley doesn't even know how to reassure them. Of course he'd never laugh at someone's body. What kind of monster does that? He wonders if being chivalrous might help. "I can turn my back," he says, "if it makes you uncomfortable." He meets Zira's eyes before he says, "I think you're beautiful, though."

They blush and Crowley, satisfied he's done his job, turns around on the bed, presenting Zira with his back. 

"Thank you," Zira says, and Crowley hums an acceptance of thanks he isn't sure he deserves while he listens to the susurration of clothing being removed. "You can look," Zira says, after a moment.

For a second, all Crowley can do is stare. Zira was already beautiful, but with their shirt off and arms crossed delicately across their chest, plus the dramatic red hair everywhere, it's like some kind of pin-up from long ago. There are light marks on their shoulders – freckles, Crowley might have thought, but no, they're too connected, kind of like webbing.

As Zira hunches in on themself, the pigmentation becomes paler but more of it becomes visible. "May I?" Crowley asks, getting off the bed and walking slowly around Zira to get a better look. As soon as he can see the back of their arms, he understands – it's wings. And it is so gorgeous, it makes him gasp. 

The wings cover their shoulders, back and arms, and descend into the waistband of their pants. "How far down do they go?" he asks, and Zira glances over at their shoulder at him. "My calves."

"Can I look closer?" Crowley asks, because Zira's been very careful about not touching and he doesn't want to upset them. Zira nods and Crowley pulls out a pair of glasses.

"You have reading glasses?" Zira asks, blushing a little, and ducking their head. "You look cute in them."

Crowley looks up and grins. "I'm only a little nearsighted, and mostly I need them when I'm doing a lot of textbook reading." He leans in a little and looks at Zira's back. "Or when I need to see detail in a work of art."

Zira definitely starts blushing then, putting their head down to avoid meeting Crowley's eyes. Crowley can't help a fond smile and goes back to examining the wings. They're pure artistry. In that way, they resemble his snake, but that's as far as the resemblance goes. These are delicate, etched into Zira's skin with the lightest touch; from far away, you might not even recognize them as anything more than a difference in skin tone. He glances down at his own mark, the thick black snake with the haunting eyes. There's detail there too, craftsmanship, but there's no mistaking it for anything but what it is. No wonder his parents thought he was a demon. 

He looks back at the wings. His own tattoo has his chosen name cleverly hidden in it. He has to guess Zira's is the same. He knows they must be connected, now. This is too strange of a coincidence to be anything else. He scans Zira's shoulders and sees the letters, forming an arc over his shoulders, as if the wings are the cape and Aziraphale is what's holding them on. 

He thinks they came up here with mutual interest - it might not necessarily have been sexual on Zira's part, but it was most certainly sexual on Crowley's. He doesn't want to touch them without permission, but he is dying to kiss the A of Aziraphale, maybe the whole name, to show his affection for his guardian angel who brought Zira to him.

"May I kiss your shoulder, my dear?" Crowley asks. 

Zira peeks back over their shoulder at him and gives him a shy nod. Crowley grins, wanting to hug Zira for the trust it must take to allow it. He leans in, staring at the A and gently places his lips on Zira's skin.

~~~

It might have only been a moment, but Aziraphale – wait, Aziraphale... that's _him_ , _he_ is the guardian angel...

The whole of their history floods into his mind and he cries out, falling backward on the bed, still reaching for –

For Crowley. Like Crowley was reaching for him, oh no, oh, Crowley, oh – 

"Crowley," he croaks, reaching his hand out, straining for Crowley to touch him. Crowley looks confused, but he reaches out, only half a second later, though as the vastness of human history is cramming itself into Aziraphale's human brain, it feels like an eon.

He shifts at the last second so that when Crowley tries to grab his hand, he grabs his wrist instead, his fingers landing on the tattoo that Crowley put there two decades ago. He can see Crowley's memory restoring itself, and his eyes finally close as everything goes dark.

~~~

_Crowley and Aziraphale are on one of a million park benches they've sat on, talking as they do their people watching, and Crowley suddenly feels it._ Malice. _The angel can feel love, among other positive emotions, and while there are many negative emotions that resonate in Crowley, the one that comes across most clearly, the one whose intentions ride out in front of it like a wave, is malice._

_It's huge, this malice. Not some little annoyed human thing, a jilted lover or angry businessman, no, this malice is deeper. Betrayal. Betrayal of the forces of evil. The demons have come for him so soon – based on Aziraphale's telling of how things went during the swap, he'd thought Hell would be too scared to come knocking for at least a couple centuries. Guess he was wrong._

_He gently but firmly grabs Aziraphale's wrist and starts pouring as much of himself into Aziraphale as he can. He makes an ouroboros around Aziraphale's wrist, one eye winking. He can't help that part, it's just who he is. And while he doesn't want to worry his friend – this might actually be the last part of Crowley he'll be able to keep, so he wants it to be happy._

_"What are you doing, Crowley?" Aziraphale asks, cross. "That stings!" He tries to pull his wrist away but Crowley holds fast, clutching less with strength than with desperation._

_"Crowley," Aziraphale says, and Crowley can feel the angel's eyes on him, the concern clear in his gaze. "What's the matter, my dear?"_

_Crowley just closes his eyes, shakes his head. He needs to concentrate. They're here to kill him – there are more ways than just holy water – and he has to give as much as he can to Aziraphale. "Really, Crowley," Aziraphale says, and Crowley clenches his jaw in irritation. He opens his eyes to shut Aziraphale down, but the first thing he sees isn't just his confused angel, it's also Sandalphon and Michael and other angels he doesn't even know coming in fast behind him._

_"No!" he cries, squeezing Aziraphale's wrist even tighter. Not that it matters now – if it's not just Hell coming for him, then it won't matter how much of his Grace he gives Aziraphale, because they're both about to die. "I love you," he says, pouring ever more grace into the sigil._

_Aziraphale's eyes open comically wide and Crowley knows he's about to say something ridiculous, but Crowley cuts him off before he can speak. "Behind you!"_

Finally _Aziraphale looks over his shoulder, realizing the situation they're in. Like the genius he is, he takes one look down at his wrist, understanding immediately what Crowley's doing, and rests his hand on Crowley's shoulder._

_Aziraphale's right. It stings. He can feel the angel's Grace fizzing over his skin, over his shoulders and arms and back, all the way down his legs. It envelops him, and it's not that he's never been able to feel love before, but he's never been able to feel it like this. He can feel the way Aziraphale loves him like an ache. Like a deep hollowness in his chest – not empty, but overflowing with something that reverberates in the space and makes it feel like it might burst._

_The demons and angels are upon them and Crowley grabs onto Aziraphale's neck with his spare hand. Aziraphale places his hand on Crowley's wrist and smiles sadly. "I love you too, Crowley."_

_Michael grabs Aziraphale by his collar and yanks him back, causing Aziraphale to make a choked noise. Crowley growls at her. "Let him go!" She doesn't even look at him, just grabs at the arm that Crowley still has in his grip._

_"A little help here," Sandalphon says, and Crowley feels the demons' hands on him, yanking him away from Aziraphale, trying to cover his mouth with tape. Aziraphale, pulling himself toward Crowley with all his strength._

_"Aziraphale!" Crowley shouts. It's all he can think of now, and he clings to Aziraphale's wrist tightly. "Aziraphale!"_

_Aziraphale is lost in his own struggles, calling out Crowley's name just as desperately, fighting to hold on and kicking at the angels with everything he's got._

_Dagon picks up Crowley's legs, dragging him backwards, away from the angel, and Hastur grabs him by the waist and yanks. Crowley holds on, putting everything he has into hanging on to this one last piece of Aziraphale._

_Beelzebub walks up to where their arms are still linked and pries Crowley's fingers off, one by one. "No," he moans, "please, no." When it's just his thumb and forefinger, he cries one last, desperate "Aziraphale!" before they're pulled apart and the next thing Crowley sees is the dank, dingy halls of Hell, and he knows his life is over._

~~~

"Aziraphale!"

Aziraphale slowly comes to, taking a moment to catch his breath after the memory of Crowley reaching for him desperately before he was taken away to Heaven and his Grace stripped from him. He keeps his eyes closed and breathes in and out deeply.

"Aziraphale, I know you're awake."

The bed jostles, and Aziraphale knows Crowley's gotten off it, and a moment later the rustling of cotton tells him he's pulling his shirt on. Aziraphale's glad he kept his eyes shut. "Just processing, dear."

Crowley makes one of his indistinguishable noises but continues on with whatever he's doing. "So."

"So," Aziraphale answers. He's going to make Crowley speak first. He wants to know if he's pacing, and he's so happy here with his eyes closed. He doesn't want to open them and know for certain where they are, or who they are, or what they look like.

"So are you going to join the conversation, or just sit there and play dead?" 

He's pacing. Aziraphale sighs and opens his eyes. They're immediately drawn to Crowley's prowling form. He's walking a figure eight around the room, and Aziraphale can't help a smile. The serpent never could walk in a straight line. 

He's still a young man, long red hair tied back now, knotted in the way he favored for a while somewhere before the turn of the twenty-first century. Eighties? Nineties? Aziraphale can't recall anymore. There's a mirror across from the bed, but Aziraphale is mostly out of frame. He knows what he looks like, though, the same youthful features and softer frame than angular Crowley. 

"How did this even happen?" Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale can't speak to what Crowley remembers after they were separated, but he has a very traumatic and painful memory of his Grace being excised and literally falling from Heaven. He knows that it isn't what happened when Crowley fell the first time – and who knows what it must've been like coming up from Hell – but his guess is somehow his consciousness made its way into a human. He does not intend to think about the details further than that. "I suppose if you take away an angel's grace, they become human." He glances at Crowley, apologetic, though he needn't be, Crowley's thinking about it himself with no chagrin showing on his face. 

"But what about the souls?" he asks. "Humans all have souls. Do we have souls now?" He turns to peer at himself in the mirror and his face falls. "We're kids," Crowley says, running his hands over his face. "For fuck's sake, what are we supposed to do looking like this?"

"Whatever we want," Aziraphale answers. They're not just free, now, they're _unimportant_. Heaven and Hell must believe they're dead. Or at least entirely human, and thus not worth their attention.

Crowley rolls his eyes. "We're _human_ ," he says, as if it's not entirely obvious – and also as if he hasn't felt the influx of Grace they'd held onto for each other.

"So?" Aziraphale asks, honestly puzzled. 

"Well, we're going to die, first off." Crowley's still making figure eights. His hands keep going to his face, and Aziraphale knows he's looking for his sunglasses. 

"Not right now," Aziraphale says, soothingly. "And if we're careful, not for some time." 

Crowley rolls his eyes at Aziraphale. "Well how about money, then? No miracling coins out of thin air anymore."

Aziraphale shakes his head. "We're wealthy. We don't need to do anything."

"Speak for yourself, angel. I never bothered with bookkeeping. The only thing I had worth anything was the Bentley, and I'm sure it's been sold for parts by now."

"Please sit, dear," Aziraphale says, patting the bed next to him and waiting for Crowley to perch there. When he does, Aziraphale takes his hand and laces their fingers together.

"I very carefully wrote your last will and testament," Aziraphale says. When Crowley gapes at him, he shrugs one shoulder in apology. "It was just a precaution. And a wise one at that."

"Ehhhh," Crowley says, which is the kind of grudging agreement Aziraphale doesn't take for anything more than grumpiness at not having thought of it himself.

"Anyway, the Bentley was to be given to Warlock Dowling upon your demise."

Crowley turns to look at him, with his oh-so-human brown eyes open wide, and Aziraphale smiles. "And Anathema is currently the owner of A.Z. Fell and Co."

"She's got to be ancient by now," Crowley says, though there's a smile in his voice. 

Aziraphale clucks his tongue. "Don't be rude. She's middle aged at most."

"Maybe she's sold it, you ever thought of that?" 

Aziraphale knows that it's the thought of Warlock selling the Bentley that's more on Crowley's mind, but he indulges his friend nonetheless. "Anathema would never. She might pass it on to her children, or those other children, if she never had any, but I am certain she would not dare to sell the shop. And Warlock would certainly never sell Nanny's Bentley."

"Doesn't matter anyway," Crowley says, sounding morose. "What, do we just get another sixty years maybe, and then we go to Heaven or Hell or whatever? What kind of life is that?"

Aziraphale is fairly certain that would be a very nice life, in fact, especially now that he finally understands things like money and social media. Still, he squeezes Crowley's hand and says, "I think whatever Grace we've got here is enough to buy us a few more years, assuming we're frugal with it."

The thing is, Aziraphale is not certain, despite the extremely pleasant concept of spending his twilight years as a human with Crowley, that they might not go get their Grace _back_. 

Grace can't be destroyed. And if he knows Gabriel – and he likes to think he has a fairly decent understanding of the Archangel after all these years – it's somewhere obvious, serving as a reminder of any angel that might try to get above their station – or ask the wrong kinds of questions. 

He's not sure about Hell, or Beelzebub, but it's likely something similar down there.

"Of course, if another millennia isn't enough for you," Aziraphale says, and Crowley stops to look it him with those beautiful but unnerving brown eyes. Aziraphale has a single moment of doubt; he has always loved his serpent's eyes, but the fact that Crowley felt compelled to keep them behind sunglasses has always made Aziraphale sad. 

He continues on despite himself. "We could always sneak in to the head offices and get our Grace back."

Crowley considers this. Aziraphale watches his uncovered eyes go soft and distant and can't help but wish he will forget about the sunglasses from here on out. He waits for Crowley's answer with more patience than he's feeling.

Eventually, Crowley gives him that thin, smirky grin and says, "Alright. I'm in."

~~~

**Author's Note:**

> I started early and life overwhelmed me before I could write the whole novel I had planned. In the end though, I imagine them having completed their heists successfully, happy and finally left alone in their cottage in South Downs, Anathema finally making a go of Aziraphale's bookshop and Warlock taking excellent care of Nanny's Bentley.


End file.
